


sustain

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Cancer, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Human Derek Hale, It Is Okay No One Will Die, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Reunions, Rimming, Terminal Illnesses, Top Stiles Stilinski, Vampire Lydia Martin, Vampire Stiles Stilinski, Vampires, Werewolf Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, there’s another person in the lab with them, someone who’s heart is beating steadily, sounding achingly familiar somehow, their blood sweet and cloying.<br/>Stiles drops the empty bag and rushes forward, because it can’t possibly be— that scent— who he thinks it is—</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theroguesgambit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/gifts).



> For dear, darling [halekingsourwolf](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Many thanks to the lovelies who read through and their suggestions that helped make this better:  
> [mikkimouse](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com), [sourwolfandsarcasm](http://sourwolfandsarcasm.tumblr.com), [metakate](http://metakate.tumblr.com), [literaryoblivion](http://literaryoblivion.tumblr.com), [ljummen](http://ljummen.tumblr.com), and [infectiouspunk](http://infectiouspunk.tumblr.com).

“Bro, you’re not looking too good. When’s the last time you ate?”

Stiles looks up from his laptop screen to see Scott looking worriedly at him. He straightens up from where he was slouched over, moving sluggishly, realizing Scott’s right.

“Dunno. A week, maybe?” It had been a blood bag from Lydia’s stash, type B positive, two days stale. The human it had come from had a greasy diet, and the blood hadn’t sat well with Stiles. Still, it was sustaining. Better than hunting down some innocent, like the olden days, and let the guilt sit for weeks, maybe months, at what was needed to survive.

“Aw, dude, no. You’re gonna pass out, and after Tired Stiles we get Hungry Stiles, and you yelled at a bunch of undergrads the last time you didn’t take care of yourself.” Scott rushes to the fridge, pulling it open and scowling when he sees only human food, and strides quickly back to Stiles’ side. “Here, come on.” Scott rolls up his shirt sleeve and offers Stiles his forearm.

Stiles takes his friend’s arm gratefully, glad not for the first time that he had the good fortune to meet Scott. Most of his relationships were tainted with the idea that Stiles would live on, and he’d never be able to form anything permanent. It had been Lydia, and only Lydia, for the longest time, and sometimes the decades would run into one another and they’d get tired of each other, Maker and Born, but eventually find their way back together. Stiles learned in his first century that relationships— especially with humans—were fleeting, and that forming attachments would only mean heartbreak in the end.

Scott was an exception, though—Scott had known from the beginning what he was, because when Scott was bitten by a rogue Alpha werewolf in the small town of Beacon Hills, Stiles was the only Registered supernatural being around at the time, just passing through.

It was a terrible situation and incredibly awkward; the nearest werewolf pack at the time was at least two hundred miles away, and it had been a full moon; no help would have come in time, and a newly bitten werewolf, abandoned by his Alpha, could have been catastrophic for the supernatural community.

Everyone is bound by the Code, the tenets that keep their varied magical existences a secret from the human world, and while most people tend to keep to themselves, every once in awhile an anomaly will occur, and whoever is around has to do the best they can to take care of it.

Stiles could have died that night— the true death, the final one— at the claws of that Alpha while trying to get him under control, but Scott, newly bitten, still struggling with his instincts— had saved him, roaring back, holding the other steady until the moon set.

They’d kept the man subdued until the next day, all of them alone in the woods, until a solemn-faced woman named Vextra from the Council with slightly green-tinged skin (“Goblin blood, from my mother’s side,”) in a immaculate business suit had arrived by helicopter to take the Alpha away.

“You should come too,” she said to Scott. “A newly bitten werewolf with no pack is a danger to others. I can find you another pack willing to take you in, and train you.”

“I can’t leave,” Scott had said reluctantly. “I’m pre-med at Berkeley, and I just applied to a dozen grad schools. I have a home here, my mom is here, my friends are here— I can’t— you said the nearest pack is where? What about my career, my future? Will there be packs where I want to be?”

Vextra had run through the Code with Scott, and finally sighed, and said, “You’ll need a sponsor. Someone who’s Registered, another supernatural—”

And Scott had looked at Stiles, and that had been that.

Stiles hadn’t had a reason to stay in one place for so long, but it had been… amazing, actually, having a friend, someone who knew the secret. Scott’s the first person other than Lydia he’s had a close relationship to since, well, he was human, and Stiles doesn’t want to think about Scott’s lifespan, even if it is werewolf-extended.

Scott smiles at him now as Stiles brings his wrist to his lips, inhaling the scent of blood pulsing in his veins. Werewolf blood is bitter and foul, but it sustains him longer; one long feeding from Scott and he can last two weeks or so, but Stiles is careful of how much he drinks; Scott’s studying for finals right now, he doesn’t want to cause him any unnecessary fatigue.

Stiles exhales, letting his fangs drop, and he’s about to sink them into Scott’s wrist when he smells it.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” Scott says, pulling his wrist back in horror. “I took Kira out for dinner earlier and I—”

“Garlic,” Stiles says wearily. “It’s cool, Scott. I’ll stop by Lydia’s office later tonight.”

“Really? This late?

“Yeah, we finally got a version of the serum she wants to start on human trials, and…” Stiles yawns and stands up, stumbling over himself. Wow, he really hasn’t taken care of himself. It’s a good thing Scott caught him in the fatigued stage— the blood thirst will make him irritable, and violent, eventually, and Stiles doesn’t ever want to lose control again. Ever.

Scott catches him by the arms. “I’ll drive you over.”

The ride to the campus is short, wind in Stiles’ hair as they zip through on Scott’s motorbike. Sure enough, the light on the seventh floor is still on. Stiles barely remembers Scott guiding him inside, and taking the elevator up. It isn’t until he’s got a blood bag ripped open in his mouth, warm sweet blood flowing into him that he stirs, sitting upright on the chaise lounge in Lydia’s office. Everything is in sharper focus, and his mind is clear; Scott and Lydia are talking in the lab next door. Stiles can hear two distinct heartbeats, smell the familiar iron-rich blood that’s Scott, strong and unyielding, and also Lydia’s distinct floral perfume with vanilla notes, and the pulse of the fresh blood she’s recently had flowing through her veins—

Two heartbeats. But Lydia’s heart wouldn’t be beating.

Stiles pushes himself off the chaise, standing up, taking another draw of blood, finishing the bag. He stands still, letting it flow through him completely, and all his senses are coming alight now—

Yes, there’s another person in the lab with them, someone who’s heart is beating steadily, sounding achingly familiar somehow, their blood sweet and cloying.

Stiles drops the empty bag and rushes forward, because it can’t possibly be— that scent— who he thinks it is—

He charges into the lab, pushing the door open.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Stilinski,” Lydia says with a smirk. “This is one of our test subjects—”

“Derek,” Stiles says, under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek blinks at him, face lighting up in surprise. “Stiles,” he says.

“You two know each other?” Lydia asks, raising her eyebrow.

Derek stands up, ripping off the electrodes off his forearms, getting out of the chair. The machine he was hooked up to beeps pitifully as Derek crosses the scant space in the time it takes Stiles to breathe.

The embrace is sudden, and Stiles can’t help but shudder into the warmth of Derek’s touch, and closes his eyes as Derek presses his forehead to his own.

“I don’t have many regrets in my life,” Derek says. “But by far, by far— not getting your number after that night in the diner— I always— I’ve thought about you, so much— I just—”  His mouth falls open, and he pulls back, as if he’s realized what he’s just done. “I’m sorry, I just, today has been really emotional, especially what Dr. Martin said about this new drug and just— seeing you again, it’s like, it’s like the universe saying we should— I mean—”

Derek blushes, embarrassed.

“I missed you too,” Stiles says softly. “I’m sorry I— that night, I couldn’t stay, I—”

Lydia makes a sharp noise of amusement, and Stiles realizes that they aren’t alone. Scott is beaming at them, and he tucks his helmets under his arm, patting Stiles and then Derek, on the shoulder as he heads out. “It was nice to meet you, Derek,” Scott says. “I’ll see you later, bro.”

Scott winks at Stiles, mouths “Diner guy?” and then it’s Stiles’ turn to blush now, because they tell each other everything, and Scott knows all about what happened that one night.

 

* * *

 

_Two years ago_

 

The rain is coming down harder now, and Stiles is soaked to the bone. He’s miserable, despite having just fed— he normally doesn’t mind the cold at all, except right now his body’s being tricked into thinking he’s human for a little while, blood pumping through his veins, and now he’s uncomfortable. It’s a good two mile walk home, and Stiles has been working all day on new variations of the cancer treatment he and Lydia have been toiling over for centuries.

He stumbles into the diner, drawn by the bright cheery lights. It’s full of people, all apparently with the same idea he had, to escape the storm. The entire counter is full, and every booth and table crammed with people talking, laughing, eating.

A waitress with a cheery smile and the nametag “Jemma” greets him. “Hey, sweetheart. We’re full up, but if you don’t mind sharing a table with another gentleman I can get you squared away.”

Stiles nods, and follows her to to back corner. He slides into the booth, whose other occupant is hidden behind a menu.

He taps the table, a nervous habit, and then the menu folds down to reveal a startling pair of hazel eyes. Stiles is lost for a moment, and then the menu is set on the table, and he’s really lost.

The man’s name is Derek, and after a nervous introduction, and some teasing about his “Han Shot First” t-shirt (Stiles always appreciates a Star Wars fan), they fall into conversation.

They order coffee, at first, then another round, then another, and then eat a meal together. Stiles eats, even though he gets no sustenance from it, and the sheer act of enjoying a meal with another person is an easy intimacy, something he’s hardly ever shared with a stranger. It’s easier not to get attached, but today Stiles has nowhere to go, and Derek’s smile is warm, and he’s genuinely interested in Stiles’ grad thesis (definitely not his first, Stiles makes good use of his immortality, studying everything he can). Derek runs a wolf sanctuary, rehabilitating injured wolves and then bringing them back to their natural habitat. He’s got loneliness behind his eyes, and he makes Stiles ache for more. To touch, to hold, to have more of these conversations.

Stiles can see there’s no possibility of a relationship. Derek is so, so beautifully and ordinarily human, his whole life ahead of him, and Stiles knows, that he’s standing on the edge, and he can’t fall in love again, because he can’t keep Derek, can’t grow old with him, can’t start a family with him, and he needed to hold himself back—

But every joke, every teasing jive leads to another, and it’s so good. Stiles lets the minutes stretch out to hours, and the rain has stopped, and the crowds have left, and soon it’s just him and Derek, sitting on the same side of the booth. They’ve run the gamut of conversations, going from arguing companionably about who the best Robin is in the Batman series, and then their families, and Stiles finds himself talking about who he is in a way that he hasn’t before.

“Life… it’s exhausting, you know? I just, I mean, I just want it to mean something, and sometimes I feel like… I’m wasting what I’m doing, and others who had… I mean, my mom would have lived every day to her fullest, and what am I doing, I—”

“Stiles,” Derek says softly, “You’re doing your best. I mean, everyone worries about their accomplishments, you know. I think your mother would be proud of what you’re doing. I mean, your research is going to save lives.”

“Right,” Stiles says, hollowly. As if that would make up for everything. He’s a monster, a parasite, and even though he’s tried his best— he’s killed in the name of bloodlust, in the past. He’s not proud of that. There are many tenets to the Code that are new, but the old ways pretty much everyone was left to decide for themselves how they wanted to live their lives, as long as the greater mundane world didn’t find out, it was all fine.

Lydia turned Stiles at the turn of the century; he’d been a student of Nikola Tesla’s, a hardworking hopeful whose parents were Polish immigrants. He’d lost his mother to leukemia, his father to a midnight brawl gone wrong. Stiles himself had been sickly, and then one day this woman had appeared in the workshop, all fine furs and regal smile, and she’d asked Stiles (Mieczysław, then, or just Junior, as he shared the same name as his father) if he liked science.

It had been an easy decision to make, at twenty-two years of age, coughing up his lungs constantly; eternal life sounded incredible, the bloodlust a minor burden, and Lydia’s company captivating and what seemed like an endless number of challenging projects for a young mind.

But the years stretched out forever, and while Stiles loved Lydia, and she returned his affection in kind, it was a familial love now, a fierce loyalty that will never waver, but it was a far cry than the pedestal he’d held her to at first. He’d been infatuated with her in the beginning, for who better to spend eternity with than someone you’re in love with? They’d found, though, that they made far better friends than they did lovers, and quickly moved on, traveling the world together, never keeping in any place long enough to raise suspicion.

Stiles has had lovers, sure, been in and out of love, but he’s never felt the intensity of what he’s felt in the very moment, sitting in this small booth with Derek, on the bright plastic seats, close but not close enough, Derek’s arm hovering around his shoulders— almost, almost touching. They can’t be strangers, not anymore, not after Stiles bared his heart to him and found Derek’s quiet acceptance, and in turn, his own offering.

“We carry this guilt, and I do think it’s guilt, what you’re talking about, with your parents— like I lost my family very early. All of them. It was a house fire, an accident. I was at college, because I couldn’t get a flight back for Thanksgiving break; the only one of us who wasn’t there that night. And I— for years, just— I couldn’t do anything. Thought if I was sad, I wasn’t sad enough, or if I was happy I didn’t deserve it, and it just— it ate away at me.” Derek is solemn, eyes overcast with an old grief. “We can’t just hold ourselves hostage for what’s happened to us. We should live. And they’d want that. For us. The people we’ve lost.”

Stiles is caught Derek’s words, suspended in this moment of time, where it’s just the two of them in this little cozy booth, plate filled with empty coffee cups and crumby plates, the scent of cinnamon and apple heavy in the air. There are specks of granulated sugar dusting Derek’s lips, from the pie he was eating earlier, and there are gold flecks in Derek’s eyes, a captivating combination of green and gold and gray, and Stiles tries to memorize the moment, enjoy it while he can, before he falls in love—

Derek kisses him.

It’s soft and hesitant, just the gentlest press of lips, a question, and Stiles makes a small noise of longing before he melts into it, kissing him back for all he’s worth. It’s everything he can never have, and his heart is bursting into pieces, but he just wants this one moment.

Stiles’ hands find his way into Derek’s hair, curling his fingers into the soft tendrils there, and he wants more, but he can’t— he can’t do this.

He pulls back first, and Derek grins at him, impossibly happy, eyes sparkling, and he presses their foreheads together. “Stiles, I— would you like to—”

“Whenever you boys are ready, no rush.” Jemma sets the check on the table and gives them a knowing smirk before walking away.

Stiles fishes in his pocket for money for his share of the check, but Derek pushes it away, shaking his head. “I’ll take care of it, I’ll be right back!” he says, grabbing the check and pulling out his wallet. He gets up from the table in a rush, blushing as he grins at Stiles, and then heads after the waitress, not before turning to look at Stiles one last time.

The minute his back is turned Stiles runs back out into the rain.

 

* * *

 

 

The two years have not been kind to Derek; Stiles can see premature greying at his temples, his face looks weary and his scent— though familiar, is off, a sour edge to it— but he still looks gorgeous, makes Stiles weak with hope and heartbreak all at once.

“Wait, you’re Lydia’s— you’re one of our test—” Stiles stares. All of their volunteers are terminally ill, which means Derek— Derek is—

“Derek is our first human trial,” Lydia says, giving Stiles a searching look as she puts away the equipment.

“In the one we’re going to publish next year, or the— the _other_ one—”

One of the treatments they had been experimenting with in the past decade had been using vampire blood. In the event of the Code being revisited again, if the supernatural was made public, or just… well, for science’s sake, and even if they couldn’t release it to the broader public, they could heal as many people as they secretly could.

Lydia clicks her tongue dismissively and raises her eyebrow. In not answering the question, she does answer it, and a coil of excitement— and then fear— churns through Stiles. Derek knows. Lydia and he have been fully disclosing about the nature of the supernatural to their select human volunteers for the special trial, so they are fully aware of all the consequences should anything go wrong.

And the chances _are_ fairly high. They’ve worked on rats, and then a few small mammals, and the fatality rate has been more than fifty percent, and even as the effectiveness of removing the malignant cells improved, the ability of a body to withstand the intense treatment seems almost random. But the serum is a delicate combination of vampire blood and chemotherapy, but the medicine has a volatile reaction to the vampire blood, and it’s only effective for a short amount of time, hence the rapid move towards human trials while the cure still works.

“Thank you for coming in so late for data collection. It’s important we have a constant stream of information during the trial. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Hale.” Lydia tosses Stiles the keys to the lab. “The centrifuge will be ready for another cycle in two minutes and thirty seconds. I’m going to bed, you take care of the second batch.”

Derek does a double take, looking from Stiles to Lydia. “Stiles— Stiles works here— as—”

“Stiles is my graduate student, yes.” Lydia says neatly, walking to the door. “He’s been working with me for quite some time.” The sentence hangs in the air, somehow both innocent and full of meaning, and Stiles swallows back his nerves gratefully, knowing Lydia’s giving him the option here. She’s done quite well for herself with this name and life so far, establishing herself as a cornerstone of the medical research community, and her advisorship is sought out by many prospective grad students. It wouldn’t be difficult for Stiles to claim ignorance of the supernatural, to pretend to be one of the human grad students…

And yet.

The door closes, and Stiles is left alone with Derek.

“Stiles,” Derek says, nervous and excited and fearful all at once. He’s probably been lectured by Lydia about the importance of the secrecy of the supernatural nature of the treatment, to not discuss it with anyone but her.

Stiles takes a deep breath. Okay, this is an important moment, he should word this carefully, fuck, what was the official protocol for the volunteer disclosure Lydia had given him again? Stiles doesn’t remember any of it.

Derek chuckles a little, his ears a bright pink. “I ah, thought you might have gone to this university, I even looked up all the students in the biology department, but the website didn’t have pictures for any of the grad students, and I didn’t see your name up there either…and I only had your first name, to go by…”

Stiles can’t even recall what name he’s currently using, at least whatever official one would be on the school roster. It certainly wouldn’t have been Stiles. He’s touched that Derek tried to find him, and almost tells Derek he’d been ridiculously close to just Googling for information on local wolf sanctuaries. Stiles had stopped himself from giving into the temptation, though— finding Derek again was absolutely out of the question.

But everything is different now.

“So, uh, have you been researching with Dr. Martin awhile? I mean, how long is ‘quite some time,’ really, like I feel like when I talked to you awhile ago you sounded like you were almost done with your thesis.”

“Well, about three years,” Stiles says, giving Derek the answer he normally gives to other students and faculty, and then… “Well, give or take a few decades. A century, actually.”

“A century,” Derek repeats.

“So yeah, I am a vampire, uh, in addition to being her grad student,” Stiles says awkwardly.

Derek blinks at him. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry about — well, that night we met, that was, well I wanted to. So badly, Derek. I— we—really had a connection there, but I can’t get involved with humans. I’m sorry.” Stiles shifts, watching Derek’s careful reaction.

“I understand,” Derek says. “At the time I thought maybe you had somewhere you needed to be, or you just didn’t want to spend any more time with me, or something, but…”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then there’s a shrill beeping sound. “I need to get that,” Stiles says, walking over to the centrifuge and throwing open the door. “It’s late, you probably need to get some rest before tomorrow.” He takes a gulp, thinking of what happened to most of their test subjects, and what tomorrow might be. He bites his lip, concentrating on removing the test tubes of their latest serum combination from the machine and lays them out in a tray to put in the refrigerator.

To his surprise, Derek is still there when he looks up, leaning against one of the lab tables and watching him intently. “Is any of that blood used yours?” Derek asks curiously.

“Not in this first set, this is all Lydia’s,” Stiles says, placing the tray in the refrigerator. He takes out the second batch and heads back to the centrifuge, placing each test tube inside carefully. “This set is mine, though. We haven’t been able to tell a significant difference in the serums tested on small mammals based on the ones with Lydia’s blood or mine, but we want to know if there’ll be any measurable effects based on the vampire’s age.”

He turns the machine back on, setting it for twelve hours, to keep the blood fresh. It’s a shame they can’t keep it just rotating in the centrifuge; but vampire blood is very tricky to keep on it’s own; combine a veritable cocktail of other drugs into the mix, it’s almost impossible. But they’ve managed.

“Tomorrow, do you know if the one I’m taking— is it yours or Lydia’s?”

“The serum for the first set of volunteers all were made with my blood,” Stiles says carefully, shutting the machine lid and inputting the settings. It starts rumbling, and Stiles is now done with all his tasks. If he were human he’d be certain his palms would be sweating, but as is he’s just had a fresh fill of blood, and it’s pumping through his veins now, betraying his normally calm composure by rushing to pink his cheeks. He looks at Derek, who catches his gaze and smiles.

“So there’s a good chance this will mess up and I’ll… become a vampire, I suppose. If that happens, what would that make us? Would I be…”

Stiles rubs a hand through his hair. “There isn’t a magical bond between Maker and Born, if that’s what you’re thinking. I can’t compel you do anything or you’re not stuck with me and stuff like that, none of that stuff you see in your movies or books. Almost all of that, aside from the garlic being an inconvenience, is manufactured by vampires themselves to mislead the public from discovering the truth. And to be honest, your treatment isn’t anything like me turning you, that would be— that would be a whole other process. We’re not trying to make new vampires, Derek, we’re just trying to use the effect of the blood with the chemo to remove the malignant cells from your body and to stop them from growing.”

“Right, I know the process, I mean, that’s why I signed up for the study, even though there was a risk. I don’t exactly have anything to lose.” Derek smiles at him, and Stiles remembers the conversation they had long ago, when Derek told him about not having anyone.

“You should get some rest,” Stiles says softly, walking towards the door. Derek follows, and they step into the hallway, the lingering lights of the building flickering. He closes the lab, locking it shut, and then there’s nowhere else to look except into Derek’s eyes.

“Stiles, wait.” Derek catches him by the sleeve, voice hesitant, hopeful. “Even if I had just met you today, and if today— tonight— whatever, I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, and tonight is mine to do as I wish, I just want to spend time with you. If you want to be with me, that is.”

Stiles thinks about that night in the diner, about the decades he’s had, the people he’s had to let go of, that the last time he let himself love someone, he’d told himself it would be the last, that he’d never want to experience that kind of heartbreak again.

And yet Stiles wouldn’t give back the few years he had with Heather, not a second of them. Their marriage had been a bright point of his life, and there was nothing he could have done about the car accident that took her away from him, and the grief that followed in the decades to come he’d thrown himself back into the work with Lydia, determined to never get attached to anyone again.

“Would it not be worth it?” Heather had asked, curls falling out of her coiffed hair as she pulled Stiles in by the suspenders. He’d told her the secret then, the reason why they couldn’t get married, that he could never give her children, that he’d outlive her, and see her die.

But Stiles was young still, barely twenty years since bitten, and in love, and Heather had said it would be worth being happy.

Maybe he’d been so focused on the pain of after, after Heather, after his other boyfriends and girlfriends and then just… no one, because Stiles couldn’t bear it.

Stiles looks at Derek now, how he’s thought of Derek so often since that night in the diner, how much he’s regretted and wished they could have had that time together. Maybe if he had stayed that night, they could have had those two years together, and it was time wasted, Stiles was wrong, so wrong, it hurt anyways, not knowing Derek, and yes, of course it’s going to hurt, and his heart will break, but Derek wants him, Derek is here, and tomorrow—

“I do,” Stiles says, stepping forward.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, catching his lips in an aching sigh.

He takes his hand, and squeezing Stiles’ fingers together, and they ride the elevator back down together, watching the faint lights of the city flicker beyond the windows.

They kiss again, this time with Stiles’ hands making their way through Derek’s hair, Derek’s body pressing him up against the glass of the elevator. Stiles groans, and if his heart was still beating he’s sure it would be racing. The blood he drank earlier races through his veins, lighting his body with fire and warmth and need.

The elevator doors open, and then they’re laughing, a giddy euphoria in the air, as Derek pulls him out of the building, the two of them running across the empty campus in the dark until they make it to Derek’s sleek black Camaro. They kiss again in the car, Stiles leaning over the console to taste Derek’s lips again.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes against his lips. “I only live ten minutes away. One exit.”

“Mmm.” Stiles slinks back in his seat, and the engine roars to life. They pull onto the freeway, dark except for the occasional car heading on the opposite direction. Stiles strokes Derek’s thigh with his hand, running his hand up the fabric, feeling the blood pulse hot and quick underneath him. Derek shudders, watching the road, and Stiles takes one of Derek’s hands off the wheel, sucking a finger into his mouth, curling his tongue around the digit slowly.

“Fuck, I just missed the exit,” Derek says.

“We can get the next one,” Stiles says, kissing the palm of Derek’s hand.

“You don’t understand, this freeway junction splits, and that one goes off to the city, and this one turns into the bridge that goes across the bay and it’ll be another twenty minutes before we can turn around! Stiles, I’ve lived in this city all my life and I’ve never, ever missed that exit!”

Stiles laughs at the expression on Derek’s face, and then Derek is laughing with him, and everything is wonderful.

He’s achingly hard by the time Derek drags him into his apartment, and the door barely shuts before Derek is pressing him against it, body aligning perfectly against his own, grinding with the perfect, sweet friction.

“Stiles,” Derek moans. “Thought about you every day since, God, just that one kiss, you have no idea.”

Stiles’ hands wander down the planes of Derek’s back, to the curve of his ass, dragging him closer until their hips meet, and he can feel the hard line of Derek’s cock brush up against his own. “Getting some of an idea,” Stiles says.

Derek laughs into his throat, and it’s just _fun_ and everything Stiles has ever wanted, someone who didn’t take themselves seriously, and… and… Derek is looking at him like he’s precious.

“You’re cute when you blush,” Derek says, kissing his nose.

“Well, I don’t always have the capability,” Stiles muses. “And while I’d love to explore every option in the bedroom with you, I think it’s fair to mention that I also normally can’t stay hard outside the first hour or so after I feed, so if you’re into—”

“Yes,” Derek growls, dropping to his knees. Derek unzips Stiles quickly, pulling down his pants. Stiles has only a few seconds to adjust to the cool air hitting his exposed skin before Derek wraps his lips around his cock.

The sudden hot heat takes Stiles by surprise, and he falls forward. Derek holds him up by the hips, eyes darting up and smirking back at him, doing absolutely wicked things with his mouth. Stiles can’t even remember the last time he’s had sex; and oh, oh, Derek is an absolute terror, guiding Stiles’ hands to his hair and wordlessly looking up at him.

Stiles tangles his fingers in those locks, tugging gently, and Derek moans in satisfaction, closing his eyes as he works Stiles’ cock. Derek is earnest and diligent, sucking a wet, messy rhythm as he brings Stiles to the edge.

"Derek," Stiles gasps. "If I come now, I won't, I won't be able to again, please—"

Derek pulls away with a lewd smack of lips, eyes dark with desire. He stands up, pulling Stiles to the bedroom, and they undress hastily on their way, clothes discarded on the floor until Stiles drags Derek's boxers off him with his teeth, and he has miles and miles of beautiful bare skin underneath him. Derek’s skin is golden and ruddy all over, except he has distinct tanlines from what could only be a Speedo or some other tight swimwear. Stiles kisses along the edge of that line on the curve of Derek’s upper thighs, losing himself in the taste of Derek's skin, how close that blood is pumping underneath his skin.

Derek’s cock is flushed dark with arousal, uncut and leaking precome, and Stiles touches him slowly, dragging his tongue along the cock, whorling his tongue around the tip before swallowing him down to the hilt.

Stiles focuses on Derek's length, the weight and feel of him in his mouth, the way Derek begs so prettily, voice hitched with want, how he trembled under Stiles’ ministrations. He teases Derek until his hips rise to meet Stiles mouth, bucking desperately, searching for more. Stiles hums around Derek's cock, memorizing every bated breath, the slack-jawed look on Derek’s face as he takes him apart.

Stiles licks his lips, savoring the salty tang of Derek in his mouth. He takes a moment to admire how Derek’s splayed out against his own sheets, gazing up back at Stiles like he can’t look away.

He’s beautiful, lost in the moment, aching and waiting for Stiles like this. Stiles climbs on the bed, settling between Derek’s spread legs, pushing his thighs apart even further so he can see the dark furl of Derek’s hole.

Stiles licks him open, doesn’t stop fucking him with his tongue until Derek is crying out for his cock, for more, _more Stiles now need you now_ , and then Derek oh so casually tosses a bottle of lube towards him, making Stiles laugh at his impatience.

“Fuck me, Stiles, please, need you,” Derek says, panting, eyes wide and beseeching, so dilated that his dark pupils have consumed all but a sliver of color in his iris, all dark and wild with lust at the idea. "

Stiles drags a finger along Derek’s still-sensitive cock, making the man shudder against the sheets once more, and then squirts a generous amount of lube onto this fingers, rubbing them until they’re all coated with the slick.

Derek moans when he’s breached with a finger, then begs Stiles for another, and Stiles just wants to keep fingering him, stretching him out until he’s a writhing, wrecked mess, but he doesn’t have the time right now if he wants to give Derek what he’s asking for.

Stiles lines himself up with Derek, tracing his rim with the tip of his cock until Derek grabs his hips and guides him forward.

It’s Stiles’ turn to tremble, caught in the hot tight heat of Derek, and then Derek reaches forward to cup him by the chin to pull him forward for a kiss, and Stiles loses the plot, surrenders to the pleasure, that aching desire he’s felt since he met Derek two years ago.

They move together, bodies aligned, skin sliding on skin, keeping a steady rhythm as Stiles rocks forward. There’s only this: the cool air wafting through the open window, stars twinkling outside, the creak of Derek’s bed, and Derek, oh, Derek, just him underneath Stiles, holding him close, thighs wrapped around Stiles’ hips, hands clasped tight behind Stiles’ neck.

They kiss again, like this moment has been inevitable since the moment they’ve met.

Stiles has lived a long time; through the turn of the century, world wars and rise and fall of stock markets, has seen the many wonders of the world, and yet, this right here, might just be the most wondrous of them all.

“Oh,” Derek sighs, like a revelation or curse or benediction and possibly, all the above.

Stiles can feel it when Derek’s body tightens up around him, kisses him the moment he comes, tastes Derek’s lips as the orgasm shudders through him.

His own orgasm is much more violent; Stiles hasn’t come in the twenty-first century at all, and it leaves him winded, gasping for breath, falling onto Derek’s chest, holding onto his arms for dear life. Stiles sees stars, and in fact, has a good few moments of just blissed out blankness, lying there atop Derek.

He’s vaguely aware of easing out of Derek, flopping onto his back, and pulling Derek close to him. It isn’t until he hears Derek’s warm laugh that he’s pulled himself out of the state, and even Stiles isn’t completely sure.

“You are incredible,” Derek says, nuzzling his neck. “That was…”

“Bang up the elephant,” Stiles mutters, dazedly.

“What?”

“You are the jammiest bit of jam,” Stiles says admiringly, kissing Derek on the lips.

Derek chuckles. “Okay. I don’t know what any of that means, but— you are jam, too. Um. Yes.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly. “I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten to use the common vernacular before.”

“It’s okay, it was cute,” Derek says, and he kisses Stiles again before getting out of bed. He returns with a damp washcloth and cleans them up, getting back in bed with Stiles. He wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles realizes he fits perfectly in the embrace. He could fall asleep like this, Derek holding him close, their world not extending beyond the limits of this bed.

They lay there for a long while, not sleeping but not actually awake either, lazily catching each other up on their lives. Derek seems to not want to stop touching Stiles, running his hands along his arms, his face, toes tracing the inside of Stiles’ calf. Stiles kisses him on the jaw, the neck, lays a line of kisses down his torso, just to check that he’s real. And then the touching leads to Stiles taking the time to touch Derek everywhere, and now, now he has the time to take Derek apart like he wants to.

“So you can only get hard like, right after you drink blood, basically,” Derek muses, after Stiles has gotten him off for the third time.

“Mmm, it’s not a big deal,” Stiles muses, lazily tracing his fingers in the mess of come on his stomach, rubbing it into his skin.

“But I want to make you feel good too,” Derek says. “You can drink from me, I wouldn’t mind, but I’m ill, would that be—”

“It wouldn’t be an issue for me,” Stiles says honestly. He can drink the blood of any person and it would sustain him regardless of their health. There would be a matter of taste, but that’s all. “But I wouldn’t want to. You need all the strength you can get for tomorrow, and I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

They go silent when the idea of tomorrow is brought up.

“You can sleep, it’s okay,” Stiles says, kissing Derek on the forehead.

“Maybe if this were any other night, but I’m afraid I’d be missing out. And I’m not tired.” Derek gets out of the bed, tossing a clean washcloth at Stiles.

Stiles sits up, confused, watching Derek getting dressed. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he follows suit, cleaning himself off. Except he’s pretty sure his clothes are in the living room somewhere.

“I know this place down the road, this diner. They make this pie that’s kind of amazing, and their coffee’s not bad either,” Derek says, tossing a clean t-shirt and pair of shorts at Stiles. He grins. “What do you think.”

“That actually sounds kind of perfect,” Stiles says, laughing.

They walk instead of taking the car, holding hands and making their way through the little college town. People are out in droves, laughing raucously, making their way from bar to bar, mostly undergrads on a typical Thursday night, doing their usual.

Stiles has eyes only for Derek as they walk towards the diner, and they actually run into a few of Stiles’ students, who hoot appreciatively at them.

“Dude, that was our TA!” Stiles can hear one guy— Jacob, constant talker during discussions— whisper furtively to his friends. “Fuck, he’s got game. His boyfriend’s hot!”

“Your paper is still due on Monday, Jacob!” Stiles calls after them.

The diner isn’t that crowded, but Derek leads Stiles to the same booth anyways.

“Hey, Derek, your usual, and— oh, hello!”

“Thanks, Jemma,” Derek says. “And a coffee for Stiles.”

Jemma clicks her tongue, grinning at the two of them in the booth. “The two of you, back again! It was the sweetest, you know. I mean, I see a lot of people come and go in this diner, but the way you two met was just so darling.”

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles says, embarrassed. He hadn’t come back to this diner since that night, in case he’d run into Derek again.

“I came back every week,” Derek says, blushing. “Just in case.”

Stiles curls in next to him in the booth, brushing his nose against Derek’s, and Derek continues the motion, rubbing them together, and it’s so soft and silly Stiles has to laugh, just a little.

“Yeah? You wanted another smackdown on why your whole theory on the Joker was wrong? You can’t win on this, I own every single comic book written since the beginning of time. I’ve got a vault.”

Derek laughs, and like that, it’s easy again to fall into the banter and the teasing, like they never left the diner in the first place.

They talk until it’s almost dawn, and at the first glimpse of the sky starting to lighten on the horizon Derek turns to look at Stiles in worry. “Do we have to leave? Do you have like, a—”

“Coffin? No.” Stiles laughs. It’s so cute, Derek’s concern. “I mean, we’re all fairly allergic, but there isn’t enough UV rays at this time of day to give me anything worse than a skin rash.”

Derek makes a little frown at that, and insists they leave. He gets up to get the check, pushing away Stiles’ protests at that again, and Stiles fondly watches the curve of his ass as he leans over the counter, settling the bill.

Derek comes back and stops a little before he gets to the booth, staring.

“What?” Stiles asks.

Derek surges forward and kisses him again. “Sometimes I think I dreamed it all,” he whispers. “And I did, dream about it, after, coming back to an empty table, you’re never here, except, now, now you are.”

They walk hand in hand back to Derek’s apartment, and Stiles sleepily watches him cook breakfast for himself, trying to keep the moment and not dwell on what’s to come. Derek coaxes him into the shower with him, and while they spend more time touching each other under the wet spray than getting clean, it’s still relatively efficient.

Derek’s wiping him dry, rubbing a towel over his head. There are droplets of water clinging to Derek’s eyelashes, and he’s swaying a little, almost like they’re dancing.

“I love you,” Stiles says.

Derek blinks and the towel in his grasp falls out, unraveling and flopping over Stiles’ vision until all he can see is soft green terry cloth. Then Derek is lifting the other edge and joining him underneath the towel, staring at him.

“Sorry, if that was sudden, I just— I know how I feel, how I feel about you, and I just wanted to let you know, before—”

Derek kisses him quickly.

“I love you, too.”

They get dressed again, and Derek produces a hooded sweatshirt from somewhere and bundles Stiles into it. “For the sun,” he says, pulling the hood over Stiles’ face.

“Literally, the walk from your apartment to your car, and then your car to the blacked-out sciences building is not enough to—”

“I just want to take care of you, Stiles,” Derek says earnestly, and something about it makes him feel warm inside.

The drive to campus is silent, and the walk to the sciences building full of foreboding. Stiles kisses him once more in the elevator. “I’m gonna take care of you, too,” he says, and it’s a promise.

He leads Derek to the lab, but Lydia sees them and frowns. “Stiles, you can’t be here.”

“But I’m administering the—”

“Yeah, before I knew you were involved with the test subject, now scram. I’ll keep you updated with the results, but you _can’t be here.”_

“Lydia—”

“Stiles, it’s okay.” Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand once more, and then Stiles is in the hallway, a bundle of nerves.

He can go to his office, but he doesn’t have any work that he has to do right now, and he doesn’t have any classes to take today, or classes to teach, either.

Stiles ends up pacing back and forth in his blacked out office, and then it’s too bright for him to walk back home, so he just is worrying himself sick, stuck in the building, until Scott shows up with an umbrella and takes him home.

 

* * *

 

“Well, preliminary results say that the cancer is all gone, but—”

“He smells good,” Stiles says, watching Derek through the window to the trial room. “Smells healthier than he did before. It worked, didn’t it?”

Derek is asleep, looking peaceful, the heart monitor beeping steadily next to him.

Lydia passes him the clipboard with the results, her mouth a drawn, thin line.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles knows that look, and fears the worst.

“Look at the pattern of his vitals.”

Stiles reads through the results, his insides going cold. “This pattern, it’s the same we observed in all the subjects that died, Lydia.”

“Exactly. There’s something wrong.”

Stiles pushes the chart back at her. “But they all died within four hours of the treatment. Derek’s stable, right?”

“Right, but he isn’t following the patterns for the subjects that lived, either. Look at his vitals, just at his heartrate, this is normal, but this, this makes me think he’s died at least a dozen times in the last hour.”

Stiles’ emotions are all over the place, and he doesn’t know how to feel. “So is he… is he one of us, or something like us now?”

Lydia sighs. “I have no idea right now, Stiles. We’re not only in uncharted territory here, we’re literally off the map. No one has ever done anything like this before. We’ll have to keep watch. I can’t start another human trial with the same serum until we’re absolutely sure.”

Stiles looks back in the window hopefully.

“He asked for you, you know, after the procedure. Was kind of out of it, but he wants to see you. Go ahead.” Lydia nudges him towards the door.

Stiles enters the small room, one of the three rooms they’ve set up as recovery spaces for their volunteers. Derek stirs a little at the noise, turns and sees him and smiles.

“Hey,” Derek says sleepily.

“Hey.”

“I’m cancer-free,” Derek says proudly.

“Yeah, you are.” Stiles can’t help but smile.

Derek pats the spot next to him on the bed, and Stiles toes off his shoes and lays down, curling up next to him. “You’re gonna live a long and happy life, Derek Hale,” Stiles whispers.

Derek is already asleep, a smile on his face. Stiles kisses him on the cheek and closes his eyes, hoping for the best.

 

* * *

 

 

“What if they don’t like me? Or if they try to eat me?”

“Stiles, they’re not going to eat you, I promise,” Derek says. “Here, you’re not even holding this umbrella right, you’re gonna get sunburned.” Derek takes the umbrella out of Stiles’ hands, holding it up for him as they walk along the trail.

The afternoon sunlight filters through the dappled trees, and they’re walking through the Hale Nature Preserve and Wolf Sanctuary. Stiles is bundled up despite the warm day, following Derek through the trees. It’s been two weeks since he’s had the treatment, and so far despite their initial concerns, Derek’s been doing incredibly well, with no discernible traces of either the cancer returning or experiencing bloodlust. They’ve been mapping his genome, trying to figure out the full effect of the treatment, but it’s a long and arduous process.

Stiles catches the first sight of a wolf coming over the ridge, a majestic looking silhouette bounding towards them. He freezes, and Derek makes a sharp whistle of greeting.

“This is Kirk,” Derek says. “I’ve been taking care of him since he was a pup.” He hands the umbrella back to Stiles and then, to Stiles’ delight, drops on all fours and starts roughhousing with the wolf.

The huge black wolf nips at Derek’s clothes, growling playfully and panting, and then stops and turns, seeing Stiles.

“Uh, hello,” Stiles says nervously.

“Come on, he looks super intimidating, but he’s a huge softie.” The wolf licks at Derek’s chin, as if to demonstrate his point.

“Didn’t you say, he was the alpha wolf of this pack now? Like he can rip my throat out with his teeth if he wants, and like…”

Derek makes a strange, growling noise, and Kirk’s ears flatten, and his tail wags a bit. “I grew up with this one. Technically, I think he thinks that I’m his alpha.”

Stiles reaches out a gloved hand, and then withdraws. “He’s a predator, ah, I can’t.”

“Stiles, _you’re_ a predator. Your best friend is a werewolf!”

“Yeah, but Scott will talk back to me and I don’t know what this wolf is thinking and oh my GOD HE’S WALKING TOWARDS ME DEREK WHAT DO I DO?”

Stiles’ dignity would like him to say that his voice did not just go incredibly high and shrill, and later, Derek will absolutely assure him that it doesn’t, and Stiles totally kept his cool.

“Just lower your voice, calm down. Extend your hand to him, and wait for him to approach you.”

“Derek!” Stiles whispers, trying not to panic, but he holds his hand out like Derek instructed, his other holding his umbrella, trembling slightly in his little artificial shade.

Kirk sniffs at him curiously, and then licks his palm. Stiles looks up, elated, and then hesitantly pats Kirk on the head. He slumps in relief when Kirk eyes him warily but lets him touch him, and then goes back to Derek, yipping at his heels.

Something distracts Kirk in the distance, and he howls, running off into the woods.

Derek laughs. “That went well. Come on, we have some cubs at the center that are too small to roam around the Preserve by themselves, you can meet those.”

“Cubs! Why didn’t we start with the babies, Derek?” Stiles wails.

“Because your face,” Derek says simply.

Stiles lunges for Derek, tackling him to the ground, and the two of them fall in a tangled heap into the dirt and the leaves. The umbrella falls to the ground, and Stiles face is in the sun for a few seconds, but it’s worth it for getting the tickling in.

Derek laughs helplessly for a second, then tickles Stiles right back, and then rolls them over so Stiles is on his back. Derek hovers over him, shading him from the sun.

“I can’t believe you brought me out here just to seduce me,” Stiles teases.

“I dunno, if I was trying to seduce you I think you’d know,” Derek says, rolling his hips forward.

It’s cheesy and ridiculous and it works, and Stiles just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Derek kisses him gently on the cheek. “Thanks, you know.”

“For what?”

Derek shrugs. “Coming here with me. I appreciate it a lot, you know.”

They move to sit underneath the shade of a huge oak tree, and Derek wraps his arm around Stiles. “I— I talked to Lydia about vampires and everything, you know, in case I— well, I know there’s something wrong. Something major that she hasn’t tested the serum I had on any other of the human volunteers.”

“Well, yeah, because we still don’t know what’s going on with you. It’s just a precaution. You’re going to be fine, Derek. You’ve been fine.”

“Okay, but even if I am— did we rush into this? You and me? And now you’re stuck with me and I’m already going gray and —”

It’s Stiles’ turn to kiss Derek to shut him up. “I don’t care about that.”

“Yeah, but—” Derek swallows, nervous. “I’ll die one day, and you’ll have to go on.”

“It’s the time you spend while living that’s more important,” Stiles says softly. “You were the one to tell me that, when we first met. I want to be with you, Derek. I don’t want to run away from love anymore.”

Derek takes a deep breath, and his entire face lights up as he leans in. Stiles thinks he’s going for a kiss but Derek just holds him close, inhaling at the skin of his neck. They hold each other like that, sitting on the forest floor together as the leaves fall around them.

Stiles is watching the sunset, playing idly with Derek’s hair as he sleeps, sprawled out in Derek’s lap. Something is buzzing, coming from Derek’s pocket.

He fishes out Derek’s cellphone and recognizes Lydia’s number, answering the call.

“Stiles? Why do you— you know what, I shouldn’t even bother asking. Where’s Derek?”

“Asleep. What’s up?”

“I finished part of his genome, he’ll want to hear this. Put him on.”

Stiles nudges Derek awake, who nuzzles Stiles’ thigh, reluctant to open his eyes, until Stiles tells him it’s Lydia with news about the experiment.

Derek sits upright, taking the phone and putting it on speaker.

“What’s going on, Dr. Martin?”

“You may want to be sitting for this.” Lydia’s voice is calm, and Stiles can’t tell over the phone whether this is going to be good or bad news. “So I’ve isolated most of the changes, and aside from successfully destroying the cancer cells, some of your DNA has been rewritten.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Okay, so … which parts?”

Lydia’s voice is clear as a bell, resonating through the small clearing. “When we were developing the treatment we had to isolate the parts of vampire DNA that would work to fight off malignant cells, speed up your healing, etcetera. You’ve retained those genetic pathways. Your insulin growth factor now looks exactly like, well, Stiles’ and my own, to put it simply.”

“So I’m a vampire?” Derek turns to Stiles, confused.

“No, not at all. Since this was the only gene we were working with in the serum, you were only affected in this way. You’re still human, but with the lifespan of a vampire’s, effectively.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles exclaims.

“That’s certainly right,” Lydia says, and Stiles can hear the frustration in her voice now. “We’re going to have to start all over. I can’t create a cure that will essentially make any human immortal, that would be the end of everything, not to mention if it got in the wrong hands— ugh. I had to throw out all the working batches of serum we have, I am most upset right now, Stiles.”

“But this is good! We know what definitely not to do, and the cancer part, that was effective, so all we have to—” Stiles excitedly chats with Lydia for a few moments before he lets her return to her research, she says goodbye to the two of them, and the forest is silent once more.

A soft purple twilight is falling around them now, and Derek hasn’t moved, is still staring at the blank space where the phone was.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “You’re not a vampire, yay!”

“Stiles, I— I have a forever,” Derek says, in wonder.

Stiles knew what Lydia had meant, heard it over the phone, but he’d still been in research mode, filtering the words but not truly processing what had happened, and now it’s hitting him, that Derek, beautiful, loving Derek, has been given an incredible gift.

“You have my forever,” Stiles says, pulling Derek in for another kiss under the stars— the first of many to come.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some phrases Stiles uses:
> 
>  _BANG UP TO THE ELEPHANT_ : This phrase originated in London in 1882, and means “perfect, complete, unapproachable.”  
>  _JAMMIEST BIT OF JAM_ : circa 1883, used to refer to "absolutely perfect" marriage prospects. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr [here.](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com)


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